


Hands

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hipster Castiel, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 19:34:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small scene where Dean, quite literally, runs into Castiel at a Supermarket and sparks fly from the very first word.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [remanth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/remanth/gifts).



“Son of a bitch,” Dean grumbled, the few scattered items he was holding flying a million directions across the supermarket floor. His hand reached out for them, only then realizing there was another pair of hands helping him

They’re long and pale, the kind of hands he always assumed would belong to a piano player or surgeon because of the grace with which they moved. His hands stopped moving and he trailed the arms up to the man they belonged to. The first thing he noticed were the blue eyes that were far too distracting for their own good, the hair in a million different directions he felt the immediate need to run his hands through, and the sideways tilt of his head that practically screamed curious.

“I apologize,” he stated, standing up and holding out the items he had generously grabbed, rubbing his hands down the oversized sweater he was wearing as if to wipe away some kind of dirt. Dean realized it was a nervous tick, however, and wondered what made him nervous.

“Not your fault, man, I should’ve been paying more attention,” Dean apologized, watching Castiel’s piano playing hands come up and adjust his thick-rimmed glasses. Dean didn’t like to describe men as beautiful, it made him distinctly uncomfortable, but it seemed damn near impossible to find a word better fit for the man in front of him than that.

“I’m Castiel,” he introduced, his slender hand that Dean couldn’t seem to move his thoughts from waiting in the air to shake his.

“Dean,” he responded. Dean didn’t know what it was about the man in front of him, but he was left scrounging for something to say just to keep him there. He didn’t want him to leave, to go away, there was something so interesting about him and the strangest bit intoxicating. “Do you play piano?”

Castiel’s face immediately took over with a confused look, his eyebrows pushing together and looking at him like he had missed some important link in the conversation. Dean wanted to slap himself in the face for such a stupid question, but it was already out in the air with no way of taking it back.

“No,” Castiel answered. “I’m a writer. Do I look like someone who plays piano?”

“The hands,” Dean sputtered out, realizing after the words were out that he should have just stayed quiet. Castiel looked like a writer, Dean concluded. He had the whole hipster, coffee shop, oversized sweater look so perfectly down it was incredibly easy to picture him with a pen between his lips and a coffee cup next to him, words flying in front of his eyes like no one’s business.

Castiel looked down at his hands as if they were the answer to some strange question, giving a quick nod before releasing them and looking back up. “And what do you do, Dean?”

“Right now I’m trying to think of a way to ask you out without coming on too strong but I’m coming up blank,” he admitted, Castiel’s eyes widening with every word.

“I- uh-“ he rambled, words failing to come from his mouth in coherent strings of thought.

“Sorry, too strong,” Dean stated, a slight bit of sadness taking over his words and his gut. There was something so electrifying about the man in front of him, something about the silence that seemed to hold a million words that made Dean want to get to the bottom of it.

“Cassie is just a little shy,” a voice came from behind Dean, distinctly british. He turned around to see a tall, blonde man with mischief in his eyes and a far too low v-neck approaching them. “I don’t mean to eavesdrop I just-“

“Eavesdropped,” Dean finished for him, his words gruff and holding nothing but the truth.

“Ooo, I do like you,” he stated again. “Castiel is a bit of a recluse, stays in writing all day, I have to beg him to come see the outside world with me. He just isn’t used to pretty boys asking him out, I’m afraid.”

“Balthazar,” Castiel hissed, narrowing his eyes at the guy in a manner that made it clear they were old friends.

“Fine, sorry, speak for yourself Cassie, but remember what we talked about. Human experiences and all that.”

Dean looked back over at Castiel, at the way he fidgeted with the end of the sweater and readjusted his glasses with a constant sense of nervousness. This wasn’t the kind of person Dean usually went for, wasn’t the kind of person he would tend to pick up from a crowd, but whether it was the strange sense of energy he emitted or the bluest eyes to ever blue that couldn’t stay away from his face, he couldn’t stand the thought of never seeing the man in front of him again.

“What do you say, Cas?” Dean questioned.

Castiel gave a hurried nod, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a crumpled piece of paper he frantically scribbled a number on. “Here,” he said, holding the paper out for him. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Dean.”

Then he was gone, and Dean was left in a whirlwind of beauty and piano-playing hands and the sense of something exhilarating and dangerous, something real. He folded the crumpled piece of paper with crisp edges twice before slipping it into his wallet and walking away with a beautiful sense of hope, of the future.

He couldn’t wait.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Check me out on tumblr -> [castielscrusade](http://castielscrusade.tumblr.com/)


End file.
